Friday, February 7, 2014

A Fictional Autobiography

The fields were burnt to black,
Dead meats scattered through the land.
You could see children
Frozen to black
Just outside their huts –
And mothers calling them in frantic.

Just to the right, there you saw some men –
Eyes gorging out as they saw me.
They had heard tales
From their grandmothers,
Of the Black who did death
And chilled with her breath.

It was my first visit
To their pristine roads.
Years I had held on to the black.

Finally, I breathed out.

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